


Unnamed

by 221b_hound



Series: Unkissed [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort Sex, Fire, Fluff, Hand Jobs, John Watson is madly in love, Kissing, Lestrade needs to learn how to knock, M/M, PTSD John, PTSD Sherlock, Pet Names, So is Sherlock but he expresses it less giddily, caught kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a week after Manchester, but Sherlock and John still have separate rooms. John discovers Sherlock's reaction to pet names and calls him a lot of silly ones. Greg springs them in a moment of affection. But then there's a case that reminds John of Afghanistan; and there's a fire that reminds Sherlock of his time dismantling Moriarty's empire, and everything he was fighting to save, before later there is comfort, and beautiful names.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unnamed

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [无以言表](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2173980) by [shawnordaisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawnordaisy/pseuds/shawnordaisy)



> I should have been doing NaNo, but this wanted to be written instead. oops.

Sherlock was at the breakfast table stooped over a microscope when John came downstairs in the morning. John was in his pyjamas and a dressing gown, yawning mightily. He grunted a monosyllabic greeting as he entered the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on. Sherlock ignored the greeting and switched the slides under the microscope.

When the kettle had boiled, John, marginally more awake, made two cups of tea and leaned against the counter, staring at his own bare feet while the teabags brewed. He wriggled his toes against the linoleum, an absent-minded Mexican-wave of digits that seemed to absorb his complete attention. When enough time had elapsed, he dipped a clean teaspoon into the mugs, scooping out each teabag and winding the string around it, pulling to squeeze the last drop of brew into the cup. He added milk to both, sugar to Sherlock’s then carried both mugs back to the living room.

As he placed Sherlock’s cup within reach on the table, Sherlock tilted his face up. His eyes were still on the slide, but the offer was unmistakable. John dropped a kiss onto the presented cheek, and smiled at how Sherlock puckered an absent kiss into the air before returning to his task.

With a contented sigh, John sank onto the sofa, put his feet up on the coffee table and snapped open the newspaper to the racing section while he sipped his tea.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock broke the comfortable silence.

“You could sleep in my room.”

“Hmm?”

“Sleep. In my room. If you like.”

John blinked at him, and smiled. Manchester was only a week ago. Slowly, in gentle, easy steps, they were finding out what they wanted and extending their limits, no rush or pressure. So far it had been brilliant.

And now Sherlock was inviting John into his own bed, where they had not yet spent a night, though they had explored each other’s bodies there, in ways not always involving orgasms, though each time marvellous, absolute perfection.

Every night, though, John slept in his own bed. Sherlock often joined him there, whether or not he was actually sleeping. He hadn’t last night, though, having experiments and case-related _thinking_ to do.

John had missed him.

“Do you mean when you’re working all night?”

“Certainly then, too. It’s much simpler to go to my room for a half hour catnap with you when I’m working than go all the way upstairs. But I do mean all the time, John.”

“So… your bedroom would be _our_ bedroom.”

“Of course it would be _our_ bedroom.”

“Is there room in your cupboard for some of my things?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “I’ve already made room for your things, John. I’ll move my lesser used items up to your old wardrobe.”

Grinning, John rose and went to Sherlock at the table.

“You haven’t been touching anything virulent or deadly under that thing, have you?” he asked, nodding at the microscope.

“Types of ash,” said Sherlock, “From different grades of paper.”

“Good.” John took Sherlock’s hands in his, kissed each of them, then kissed Sherlock’s willing mouth.

“I’ll move down this morning, sweetheart.”

Sherlock drew him down for another kiss then drew away to look at him quizzically. “ _Sweetheart_? Since when do you call me _sweetheart_?”

“Um. Since… about now, I guess.”

Sherlock frowned, considering it.

John laughed. “How about ‘sugarplum’?”

Sherlock scowled at that option and, still giggling, John stepped away. “I’ll start moving my things after breakfast.”

“No arguments that your room is more suitable?”

“Nope. It’ll be nice not to have to go up another flight of stairs when I’m knackered. Might keep the bed up there, though.”

“In case we fight?” Sherlock sounded wary.

“No, you git. In case we… ah. If you’re in the mood to…”

“Bring you to orgasm. I don’t understand why you get coy about that. You’re certainly not coy when we’re doing it. You’re very vocal.”

John laughed again. “Which is why we should keep the bed. In case you’re _in the mood_ and I _get vocal_.”

“There you go being coy again.”

“Mrs Hudson’s hearing is not impaired, Sherlock.”

“Mrs Hudson should turn up the radio. Or go shopping.”

John sighed, but he couldn’t stop laughing. “You and I are pretty much the worst tenants in London. You know that, don’t you?”

“Mrs Hudson thrives on it, John. She always has the best stories for her bridge nights, her book club and her _kaffeeklatsch_.”

“ _Kaffeklatsch_? You make it sound like she’s fomenting rebellion.”

“She’s too busy gossiping about us to foment anything.”

John decided to surrender the floor in favour of making toast. Soon after, he plunked a plate of toast smothered in peanut butter ( _filling; good source of protein_ ) and fig jam ( _sweet but pungent; Sherlock liked strong flavours_ ) in front of his partner. 

“There you go – breakfast. _Sweetheart_.”

Sherlock looked up at him. "You are entirely too pleased with yourself."

"I cannot deny it, my beloved"

Sherlock had an odd look on his face: like he wanted to object but also wanted to hear it again. 

"My darling, my pumpkin, my honeybee," John chanted happily at him, holding up a slice of smothered toast for Sherlock to bite into.

Sherlock looked askance at the toast and then askance at John. “I am not a honeybee. Or.  Any of those things. Why are you being ridiculous?”

“I’m ridiculously in love,” confessed John, refusing to be put off, “I’m a bit giddy with it just now. It’s not very properly ‘English bloke’ of me, I know. I expect it’ll pass. In a month or so. Couple of years at the outside. I should apologise for the sentimentality, but fuck it. So. Luscious. Cupcake. Sweetpea. My little periwinkle. Go on, have a bite of breakfast, Mister Scrumptious.” John waggled his eyebrows, his tone the perfect balance between teasing and complete sincerity.

“Stop it.” Sherlock’s voice was forbidding but John read something in his eyes that said ‘Do it again’.

“Make me.” 

“Is that a challenge, Doctor Watson?”

“I think it probably is, Consulting Detective Precious Thing.”

Sherlock launched himself at John from a sitting position, just as John made a pre-emptive dodge to the left. Sherlock had predicted the move, of course, and they collided.

There followed several energetic minutes of Sherlock and John brawling in pursuit of Sherlock _making John stop it_. It involved wrestling, cries of ‘missed me, _honeypie_ ’ and ‘ow, that hurt, _cutiecheeks_ ’ and also the use of peanut butter and jam on toast as a weapon. It ended with Sherlock pinned to the floor by his shoulders and thighs, on which John sprawled because Sherlock had him, in return, in a headlock.

John was giggling furiously and Sherlock was in the process of assiduously licking and sucking at the peanut butter now smeared on John’s face when Lestrade came unannounced through their front door.

“Oh, god, you two, do you _have_ to?”

“This is in fact _our home_ ,” Sherlock sniped as John, still laughing, got up and fetched a tea towel to scrub at his cheek, “You could try _knocking_.”

“Mrs Hudson said to come right on up.”

“Mrs Hudson is a dangerous lunatic. She’s fomenting rebellion,” asserted Sherlock, tugging his robe closer around himself as he, too, rose.

“She heard you disparaging her _kaffeeklatsch_ ,” said John, checking his face for leftover peanut butter, “And your timing is abysmal, Greg.” 

“Don’t blame me,” Greg protested, “Blame Mr Drew Bigelow and his bloodstained front parlour.”

Sherlock shed all signs of frivolity and wheeled to face Lestrade with avid professional interest. “But not Mr Bigelow’s dead body?”

“We could blame that too, if we could find it, or the live one, obviously. His teenaged son is also missing.”

John raced upstairs to change as Greg shared the particulars with Sherlock. He came back down to find Greg leaning against the table, waiting while Sherlock was himself getting clothed.

“Nice to see you two finally got yourselves sorted out,” Greg said to John.

“We've been sorted out for months.”

“I've never sprung you snogging before.”

Sherlock emerged from his room in his usual smart suit and replied caustically. “We weren't _snogging_. I was ...” The sharpness disappeared entirely from his tone and he suddenly looked like he was pretending not to enjoy being ridiculous. “Using John as a surface from which to partake of breakfast.”

Greg grimaced. “Not actually better, Sherlock.”

“No. But more accurate. We’ll meet you at the crime scene.”

“Fine, fine,” Greg waved his hands in the air, symbolically divesting himself of any further knowledge of what went on between them in the privacy of their home, “Finish your unfinished business if you have to, but I’m only holding the scene for twenty minutes. Don’t be late.”

“Don’t be inane. There’s a case,” said Sherlock, as though it explained everything, which it did.

Greg looked to John.

“Case,” agreed John.

The three of them left Baker Street together, then Greg left in his car, John and Sherlock close behind in a cab.

 *

At Mr Bigelow’s home, John stood in the hall and surveyed the front parlour while Sherlock picked and crawled over the furniture.

“He looks like that guy. Jack.”

“What?” John was only half hearing Anderson. Well, he only half listened to Anderson at the best of times, but at present he was also distracted by the spatter pattern of the bullets along the wall and up into the ceiling. It reminded him of something. Something that made him feel… sick. And not safe. And sad.

“Skellington, that’s it. From _The Nightmare Before Christmas_.”

“Mm.”

“The skeleton bloke, you know?”

“What? Who?” John flicked an irritated look at Anderson. God knew why Anderson kept trying to build rapport with him. John had less than no time for the vindictive little prick.  Lestrade he could forgive for what happened, for only doing his job. Anderson and Donovan, however, had relished their part in it far too much at the outset for John to ever cut them some slack. Unlike Sherlock, who dismissed it as irrelevant. It wasn’t irrelevant to John.

“That lanky git,” Anderson nodded at Sherlock, “Looks like Jack Skellington sometimes.”

John decided to give up being puzzled about Anderson and just ignore him again. He returned his gaze to the bullet holes, and the blood, and resumed being puzzled about why that was making him feel so uneasy.

Sherlock whirled, suit coat flaring with the turn, and fixed a sharp eye on John. “What is it?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“What do you see?”

John blinked and tried to gather his thoughts. He looked around the room, past Sherlock, past the police photographer and the team gathering fingerprints. He saw the family photos -  the child but not the wife – divorced then, rather than widowed – one of Bigelow with his unit leaning on a tank. He saw the magazines about military hardware and the newsletter for veterans in the greater London area – a veteran, not willingly discharged, injury then, probably. A pair of battered army boots but with non-regulation bright orange laces – cheap, nylon, bought on special, money problems then – in the corner. The packet of pills on the circular side table, under the lamp that was still there despite the bullet hole in the shade. He knew those pills – so possibly not discharge due to physical injury. PTSD-related. John had been prescribed the same pills when he was first discharged; and again, after Sherlock… after he… ( _but he was back now, so no need to think about that any more_ ) but he’d never filled the prescription.

“A veteran,” John said, narrowing his eyes, looking around, “Iraq, maybe. Having trouble sleeping. He…” John looked around again. “Not enough blood for him to have bled out here. There’s no blood trail, though. Pooling over there suggests he was triaged on the spot.” There was the first aid box, under the table, contents strewn, box itself spotted with blood. “I can’t be sure, but he may have done the field dressings himself.”

He found his gaze travelling up the wall again, to the ceiling, where a faint shower of plaster still fell as people walked around. He stared at the powdery shower. And stared.

“John? What is it?”

John swallowed and dragged his gaze back down to Sherlock’s. “Who do they think shot him?”

“What makes you think Bigelow’s the one who was shot? Why not the son? Why wasn’t Bigelow the one handling the gun?”

John blinked. He looked at the bullet pattern again. “Bigelow would know how to handle an SA80.”

“How do you know the weapon is an assault rifle?” Sherlock pressed, “We haven’t found the weapon yet.”

Once more, John blinked. He knew it was an assault weapon. How did he know that? He’d seen this pattern before. In Afghanistan. In…

He took a sharp breath and held it, reminding himself harshly that while he could smell blood and cordite, it wasn’t the _same_ blood and cordite that he could smell in his memory; and that the scent of turmeric and cumin was imaginary, just like the scent of the juniper tree outside the house in the Farah province, and the rhododendron growing along the wall of that house, and the stink of hot gun metal, of guts and faecal matter and piss and fear, were not here at all.

Another sharp breath cleared his head. “I can’t be sure,” he said, “But I’ve seen gunshot patterns like that before. This one house… this…. little kid. Maybe nine. Got hold of an assault rifle someone had left inside, and was playing around with it. And… when you’re not used to them, those things have a kick.” To demonstrate, John assumed a stance as though he was holding the rifle in question, hunkered low over the invisible site, hands braced in the perfect position although they contained no gun. “They’re not too heavy, in relative terms. Not for those kids used to hauling water and firewood and working those little plots of land.  So SA80s, they’re easy for anyone to hold. But if you haven’t fired one before, the kick takes you by surprise, and then…” he mimed pulling the trigger and the recoil pulling his arms askew. “The spray goes wide and up.” He pointed up to the ceiling. “Like that.”

“What happened to the kid?” asked Anderson, wide-eyed.

He flinched at the glare John gave him, hard and bleak and in no manner inclined to tell the story.

Sherlock stepped between them, hand on John’s arm. “As you say, no veteran would have had difficulty with the recoil. So, we’re looking for the son, rather than the father.”

“The father’s wounded,” John said, suddenly his usual calm self, “Like I said, not enough blood for a fatal injury here. It might have been an accident.” _Like Farah had been an accident._

“Hmm.” Sherlock turned to consider the room again. “John, Donovan’s out the front. Ask if she has information yet on the whereabouts of the mother.”

“I…”

“Could be important,” he said, and stalked off towards the kitchen at the back of the house.

John knew perfectly well that Sherlock was just getting him out of that house, and the lingering memories of Afghanistan that rose up and stuck like shit to shoes, sometimes. Going outside to be prickly with Donovan was as good a diversion as any.

“Fine. I’ll go ask Sergeant Donovan about the mother,” John grumbled, making it clear that he knew what Sherlock was up to. But Sherlock had disappeared through an archway and was fussing about the door leading to the narrow back yard.

John went out into the street where Sergeant Donovan was indeed on her phone and gesturing at a uniformed Constable to take note of the things she was repeating. “So he shaved his own head, yeah? And got a mate to bleach it. No wonder his mum was in a fit with him. Fine. So we’re looking for an angry baby Goth.”  She waved at John to wait a moment. “Yeah, have her on standby to come in if we find him.”

She hung up and turned, sighing. “The pictures in there of the kid are a bit out of date. Seems yesterday he gave himself a makeover then had a hissy fit with his mum.”

“How old is he?” John tried to remember the child in the photos from inside, but none of them were really clear in his mind.

“Thirteen. He’s been having it tough since his folks split up. His Dad was a bit…” Donovan stopped herself as she looked at John. “Having a bit of trouble.”

“Veterans often do,” said John mildly.

“Do they all own illegal firearms?”

John put his hands in his pockets and gave her his blandest expression. “Not all of us, no.”

“This one had an L85A1 rifle, apparently. Small arms, compact, easy to…”

“Yeah, I know what an SA80 is, thanks.”

“Sorry. Yeah.”

If one thing made John more annoyed than the mere presence of Anderson and Donovan, it was their strange and continued attempts to be _nice_ to him.

“Anyway,” Donovan continued, “He told a mate of his he had the gun. Said it made him feel safer.” She sounded sceptical.

“When you’ve spent a couple of years wondering when you’re going to catch a bullet or cop an IED, it…” started John, then grit his teeth. “Anyway, he’s not the one who fired the rifle. Looks like it might have been his angry baby Goth kid.” And he grimaced, the smell of that Farah house hitting him in the back of the throat again. That little Afghani girl had only been mucking about; everyone around her had carried guns around like fashion accessories. She’d picked it up and played with it and off it went, killing her mother; a brother; two aunts. A ricochet had gone straight through her belly. War was pretty fucking inventive when it came to killing.  It was awful and ugly and pointless and _fuck_ he didn’t want to think about that any more.

Behind him, in the house here in London, there was a shout, a scream, a burst of gunfire and an almighty roar of flames.

John dropped to a crouch as he turned, and saw the gout of flame roll down the corridor across the ceiling, and out of the front door, and as Donovan shouted “Don’t!” he ran, hell for leather, towards the fire.

_Sherlock._

The first roll of flaming gas died away, leaving the way charred but temporarily clear. John belted down the corridor yelling Sherlock’s name, ignoring those flying past him in the opposite direction. Lestrade had hold of a limping man in bloodstained bandages, who was in turn hanging onto a small, frightened boy.

The man was yelling “Let my son go, you bastards! It was an accident. A fucking accident! He’s not going to prison. He didn’t do anything. It’s not his fault!”

The forensics team, including Anderson, were wrestling the lot of them out of the house. Anderson had hold of the assault rifle by the strap, apparently afraid that any actual grip on it might set it off again.

John did not give a fuck about the gun, or Anderson, or Lestrade, or the veteran and his frightened son.

“ _Sherlock!!!!_ ”

He did not give a fuck about the flames eating along the wallpaper or the curtains or the furniture, closing in behind him as the others made it out of the house; he did not give a fuck about the smoke roiling along the ceiling and starting to fill the rooms.

“ _Sherlock, answer me!!!!_ ”

“John!”

Out of the smoke Sherlock stepped, like an apparition, a tea towel held over his mouth. John grabbed him and hauled him towards the front door, only to find the way barred by heat and flame, gouts of it spewing from the parlour into the corridor. Clutching Sherlock’s coat, John tugged him towards the back door.

“No good,” Sherlock shouted out, pulling John instead into the rear of the long corridor and to a closed door there, “One of his warning shots hit the gas cooker in the kitchen when I chased them into the house.”

“You _chased_ them?”

The door seemed stuck.

“They were hiding in the old bomb shelter. Bigelow got it into his head that his son was in danger.”

John realised he was pushing instead of pulling ( _who designed this bloody thing_?). He flung the door open just as something else in the kitchen exploded. John and Sherlock managed to mutually shove each other into bathroom.

John slammed the door shut behind them, keeping the flames and smoke at bay temporarily. He snatched at a towel to jam under the door and yelled a protest as Sherlock grabbed him by the sleeve and practically threw him into the shower cubicle. Water was running already. Sherlock crowded in after him and manhandled John to be directly under the spray.  John struggled – _What the fuck, Sherlock?_ – until Sherlock succeeded in pulling off John’s jacket. It was charred and had, until a few moments ago, been on fire.

John grabbed Sherlock’s head and pulled it under the stream, ensuring they were both thoroughly soaked. Then they staggered out onto the tiles again. Smoke was trickling in through the gap at the top of the door.

Sherlock picked up a wooden toilet roll stand and used it to smash open the small window above the sink. John, arm wrapped in a towel, swept around the edges of it, trying to dislodge any jagged edges. He folded the bathmat and placed it along the bottom rim for extra protection from the glass, then he urged Sherlock to go up first.

“No, John, you…”

“Get the _fuck_ out that window or I will fucking _throw you out_ ,” snarled John. As Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, John shoved him hard against the sink. “I’m smaller, I’ll fit better, I can go second after I’ve pushed your plush arse through the frame. Don’t you fucking _start_ with me, Sherlock, _climb out the fucking window_.”

Sherlock climbed out the window. His shoulders were narrow enough to make it with a little wriggling, but John did indeed have to apply pressure and push to get Sherlock’s hips through. Sherlock slithered out quickly after that, and John could only hope that Sherlock hadn’t landed too hard on his head before he was scrambling up and squeezing through himself. The mat along the bottom held but the other three sides of the frame were rough. He felt a stinging scrape along his right shoulder and arm before outside hands were grasping him and pulling him to safety.

“John. John!” Sherlock’s worried face was the first that hove into view. John clutched a handful of his shirt.

“You okay?”

“Of course I’m all right,” To John’s relief, Sherlock sounded annoyed at the question. _Annoyed_ meant _not hurt_.

Other hands were pushing and guiding them away from the side of the house, out into the street. Donovan’s hands, John realised.

Coughing and cursing, John and Sherlock lurched into the street. Emergency vehicles had arrived already, and a fire truck was hosing water through the front window.  Someone was shouting that the gas mains were now off.

Lestrade had the struggling Bigelow in custody, and a young boy was sobbing while a paramedic checked him for injuries.

John took one look at the vet and surged towards him, hands clenched into fists, and Sherlock was at his side, looking equally ready to thrash someone.

Bigelow’s face went ashen and he tried to step in front of his son, but also behind Lestrade. Anderson and Donovan also inserted themselves between their combined fury and the suspects.

John flagged, stopped, breath heaving, realising that exacting violent retribution on Bigelow was stupid, unnecessary. For just a second, John was at a loss for what to do. That’s when Sherlock noticed the blood on his shirt.

“John. You’re hurt.”

John stared at the torn cotton of his sleeve, the blood soaking the cloth, and the shard of glass caught in the weave.

“I’m okay,” he said, although he didn’t really feel it. He knew that most of his _not okay_ was just in his head. He’d been through this drill before often enough.

John flinched as someone loomed up beside them, bearing an orange blanket. Sherlock whirled on the paramedic, his face contorted in a snarl, then suddenly his expression changed. He snatched up the blanket and swirled it to settle around John’s shoulders. He saw the second, so far empty ambulance and guided John towards it. John protested, but he went.

For a minute or two, Lestrade and Donovan were busy getting Bigelow into an ambulance under escort, to hand the son over to his mother who had just, to confirm that the fire was almost out. Then, with Anderson in tow, they turned to find out what had become of the men of Baker Street before heading back to the station and all the interviews and paperwork to come.

They caught sight of John and Sherlock, sitting in the back of the ambulance, and froze at the picture before them.

The ambulance doors were flung open and Sherlock sat on the floor of it, his back against the open frame. John sat between Sherlock’s knees, tucked into the shelter of Sherlock’s body and an orange blanket wrapped securely around his shoulders. One of Sherlock’s arms was curled protectively around John, and with his other hand he held John’s face tenderly, stroking his cheeks. John was leaning against Sherlock’s torso, one hand up and tangled in Sherlock’s hair, the other fisted in the lapel of his ruined, sooty jacket. His face was streaked with grime and he looked utterly drained.

His eyes were open though, his face upturned, as Sherlock kissed him repeatedly, softly, little quick kisses all over John’s face. He paused from time to time to nuzzle at John’s hairline or temple before resuming, the shower of desperate, relieved, grateful kisses.

“We’re okay; we’re fine,” John murmured as Sherlock’s lips brushed his softly, as the kisses went on and on and an on, over the ridges of John’s cheeks, the arch of his eyebrows, the hollow of his temple, down his jaw, to his mouth again, against his ears, up to his forehead, the line of his nose, mouth again, cheeks again. A patter of tiny little kisses all over his skin. “It's okay, sweetheart. Babe. It’s all right.”

“It’s not. All right.”  Sherlock paused to press his lips fiercely to John’s forehead. “It’s Afghanistan. It’s…P-Provence.”

“Shh, sweetheart, shh. It’s just London and we’re okay.” John’s fingers were moving in slow strokes in Sherlock’s hair.

“I _know_ it’s just London,” snarled Sherlock, “It’s _obviously_ not a burning barn in Provence, or, or…”

John’s hand tightened in Sherlock’s hair and drew him down to press their mouths softly together. “I know, Sherlock,” he murmured against Sherlock’s lips, “I know exactly what it is and what it isn’t. I know, sweetheart.”

Sherlock took a shuddering breath and rested his forehead against John’s.

“Uh…” Anderson hadn’t entirely meant to breach the silence, but he was feeling awkward, and kind of had work to be getting on with, and… and yes. Awkward. Moreso when Sherlock lifted his head to glare at him as though he might cut Anderson down with a look.

“Sorry,” said Lestrade as normally as possible under the circumstances, “We’re going to need statements.”

“Later,” snapped Sherlock.

“Later’s fine,” agreed Lestrade easily, “I can come by your place this afternoon, if you like, or I can send someone. Give you a chance to freshen up. Let John treat that scratch of his.”

“That’s good, thanks Greg,” said John, “I’ll text you when we’re right, yeah?” John began to move from where he was held so snugly against Sherlock’s torso. Sherlock’s hands tightened convulsively around him. John patted his hands. “Let’s get home, Sherlock. I want some dry clothes and a cup of tea.”

Sherlock’s hands clenched and released, and he slowly let go, allowing John to stand. John straightened the blanket around his shoulders and held his hand out. Sherlock took it.

“You… er… want a lift?” offered Donovan carefully, “Rather than a cab? It’s not far. Cab probably won’t take you anyway.”

It was a mark of Sherlock’s state of mind that he simply stalked over to Donovan’s car and got into the back seat, tugging John in after him.

*

Sherlock closed the door on Sergeant Donovan and her pensive expression. Mrs Hudson came out at the sound, took one look at the pair of them – soggy, singed, apparently shell-shocked – and said she’d be right up with tea.

“Not right up, Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock as he took John to the stairs, “We need to clean up.”

“Oh, of course, I’ll give you an hour.”

“Give us three,” said John. He walked up the stairs beside Sherlock. Once inside the flat, they headed to the bathroom together, stripped and showered, Sherlock first, then John, while the other stood sentinel on the bathmat.

Dried and naked, they went into Sherlock’s room – and John noted the case of Sherlock’s things waiting to be moved upstairs, and the drawer with the sticky note reading ‘John’, and the space in the wardrobe. All the things made ready for him to move his clothes down here.

Their room now.

Theirs.

John sat on the edge of the bed with his first aid kit and inspected the long scratch on his arm. It wasn’t deep enough to require stitches, although it was uncomfortably deep enough in parts. He applied antiseptic cream and butterfly bandaids before stretching out on the mattress.

He held his arms out to Sherlock, who was hovering edgily at the side of the bed. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Sherlock crawled onto the bed and into his arms, reversing the position they’d been in at the back of the ambulance.

Sherlock, snugged into the V of John’s legs and against his body, stroked a hand down John’s chest, down his stomach.

“I want to make you hard,” he said, mystified at his impulses, “I want to feel you move against me. I want to feel you come. And watch you. I…” He blinked and peered intensely at John. “Is that… not good?”

John’s cock began to stir. “Sounds great to me, if you really want to.”

“I really want to.”

“It’s not uncommon, as a reaction,” said John, cuddling Sherlock close, “A whole… affirmation of life thing.”

“We’re not dead, so let’s fuck?”

“More or less.”

“I don’t want…” Sherlock began, and then he stopped. His hand dropped to cup John’s growing erection and he shifted to capture John’s mouth with his. John grew hard in Sherlock’s hand as they kissed.  “I’ve changed my mind,” breathed Sherlock, “I want to. I want an orgasm with you.”

“Tell me what you want, beautiful.”

Sherlock frowned at the use of the pet name but didn’t protest. He shifted until he was straddling John’s lap and John was leaning comfortably against the headboard. He leaned in to kiss John and they wrapped their arms around each other, taking their time, mouths warm, tongues entwined. Sherlock’s hips nudged forward and their cocks brushed together. John gasped and his thighs braced to stop himself pushing up.

As they kissed, John’s hands roamed, stroking the expanse of Sherlock’s skin. His back, his shoulders and arms, those long thighs bracketing his own. His fingers lingered over the scars they found, including the long splodge of the burn on Sherlock’s hip. “Provence?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, “I got out. The man hunting me didn’t.”

“Good,” said John, rubbing the mark and then smoothing both hands around Sherlock’s hips to the small of his back, down to his backside, up against along the ridges of Sherlock’s spine.

“I’m not a good man, John.” Sherlock, erection flagging, dropped his face to hide it against John’s shoulder.

“Who says so?”

“Everyone.”

“Everyone’s an idiot.”

“The man who burned to death in Provence.”

“The man who tried to murder you in Provence.”

“Yes.”

“He knew fuck all about it, Sherlock.” John curled his arms around Sherlock and drew him close.

Sherlock didn’t lift his head. Instead, he burrowed in closer to John’s skin. “There were others I had to… I.  They would have killed you, too, if I hadn’t stopped them.”

“Then you did what you had to do, sweetheart.”

“You shouldn’t call me those things. I’m not sweet. I’m not beautiful.”

“You are. You are to me.”

“No.”

“Yes. My sweetheart.” John kissed wherever he could reach. Face and hair and shoulders. “Precious. Sweetpea. Beautiful. My honeybee, you are. I love you.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched. “You say that. You always say that. I haven’t said it yet.”

“I told you. I came back when I knew you loved me. I am here. _Ipso facto_ , you love me.”

Instead of taking him to task about his specious logic, Sherlock  took John’s face in his hands and kissed him until they were both breathless. Then he reached down and took John’s erection in one hand. He stroked the hot, velvet-over-rigid skin, ran his thumb over the glans to gather up the beading moisture, and spread it around the head for lubrication.

“I want to feel you come,” he whispered against John’s ear, “I want to feel you move. Move for me, John.”

With a groan, John obliged, pushing up into Sherlock’s fist. With Sherlock in his lap, his range was restricted, but he tried. Sherlock shifted, taking weight onto his knees to give John room buck upwards.

“That’s it,” Sherlock murmured, “That’s it, John. Move for me. I like how you feel in my hand. I love how you breathe like this.” John moaned. “Yes. Yes. I love the sounds you make, John. For me. I’ve got you. Let go, John, and move for me. Yes. Yes. Like that.” Sherlock bent close to John’s ear, his hand sliding steadily, firmly, up and down the shaft of John’s cock, thumb over the crown, the skin-on-skin slicker with each pass. “That’s it, m-my darling.” Sherlock breathed heavily against the shell of John’s ear, and John shivered at the warmth of it, “My dearest,” Sherlock said, the tone of it still hesitant, as though he was only trying it out, “My love.”

John gasped and moaned, his arms tight around Sherlock’s waist. “God. Sweetheart. Sherlock. Yes.”

Sherlock murmured: “My soldier. My golden boy.”

John pushed and sighed, was close, but seemed to get no closer, until Sherlock kissed him possessively and abandoned all those epithets in favour of the word with which he was most comfortable: the word he loved best, in a hot, low breath in John’s ear: “ _John, John, my John, oh John, come for me. Come for me, John._ ”

Arching up with a helpless cry, John came, painting Sherlock’s stomach and his own in hot, heedless spurts. Sherlock kissed him again and, panting for breath, John did his best to return each kiss, until Sherlock sat back on John’s thighs and regarded John with combined satisfaction and inquiry.

“You respond most intensely when I say your name,” he said, “Why is that?”

John reached out to trace Sherlock’s lips with the tip of his fingers. “Because,” he said between happily heaving breaths, “I have the most mundane name in the history of the Commonwealth. A billion and one people are called John. But when you say my name,” he grinned dazedly, “Sometimes it sounds important.” His thumb brushed against Sherlock’s full lower lip. “When you say my name, sometimes it sounds exactly like ‘sweetheart’.”

Sherlock kissed John’s thumb. He leaned in close to kiss John’s mouth. “John,” he murmured against beloved skin, and indeed, it sounded exactly like ‘sweetheart’, even to himself.

“Do you still want to come?” John asked, gazing raptly at Sherlock’s mouth, then into his eyes.

“Oh, god, yes.”

“Do you want me to touch you? Or be still?”

Sherlock shifted again, making space between their bodies. He wrapped his own hand around his erection and began to stroke. “Watch me.”

“I’m watching, sweetheart.”

Sherlock watched John watching him. He shivered at the notion of it, at the knowledge of it.

“Put your hand over mine.”

John gently placed his hand over Sherlock’s, not guiding, but following the motion. He knew that Sherlock was slow to arousal, and often overwhelmed by too much input. This, for as long as Sherlock wanted it, was a lovely compromise.

Sherlock moaned and thrust into his own hand, and watched John’s hand rest on his. He felt John’s warm thighs under his legs and backside. He lifted a hand (John lifted his away for a moment) to the cooling semen on his stomach, swiped it into his palm and smeared it onto his cock.

“Your hand,” he said, and John placed his hand over Sherlock’s again. “Yes.”

John was silent now, knowing that even talking could be too much input now, but that wasn’t what Sherlock wanted this time.

“Say it,” he said, voice strained, “Any of it.”

John hesitated, too dazed by the sight of Sherlock stroking himself, hearing the wet slide of his own come on Sherlock’s skin, to understand immediately.

“Please, John. S-s-say s-s…”

“Sweetheart,” said John in a reverent breath, “Oh, my sweetheart. Beautiful. My gorgeous boy. Look at you. You precious thing.”

Sherlock placed his other hand over John’s and thrust harder, and he whimpered a wanton exhale. “ _John_.”

“Sweetheart. Love. My honeybee. Oh, my honey, my honeybee, my beautiful, come on sweetheart…” And Sherlock began to rock harder and to cry out, and John kept talking, “Come for me, baby, my heart, my honeybee, my sweetheart…” And Sherlock came, and came, and came, while John called him every beautiful name he knew.

Sherlock sat, folded against John’s torso, and drew shuddering breaths until his body calmed. John stayed very still beneath him, hands resting on Sherlock’s hips. Present and calm, his love both undemanding and unconditional.

When he was ready, Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s and slowly, thoroughly, they kissed. Then Sherlock got off John’s lap, searched until he found a pyjama shirt and used it to clean them both up.

John wriggled down in the bed until they were lying side by side. Their clasped hands were between them. Periodically, John would rub his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand.

“I am you know,” said John, “Giddily in love with you.”

“You said _ridiculously_ at breakfast.”

“I was mistaken. It’s not ridiculous at all. _I’m_ ridiculous. _Obviously_. Being in love with you, though. Most sensible thing I’ve ever done.”

“Well. You did invade Afghanistan. You could only go up from there.”

They both giggled for a while. Sherlock raised their joined hands to kiss John’s knuckles and hold them against his cheek.

He wished those three words that John said so easily, so often, would come loose from his tongue and be said. But those words were so… so _small_. So imprecise. So _insufficient_. They would hover there, on the edge of his brain, in the heat of his mouth, and then fail, because they weren’t enough. Surely, they weren’t enough.

_I love you._

Too large a world lived in the feeling for three mundane syllables to carry. So they remained unsaid.

John fell asleep. Sherlock didn’t, but he stayed there, holding John’s hand, listening to John snore gently. _Giddily_ , he thought, _in love_. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Unnamed [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6651670) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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